


Merry Quizmas

by Nonnymus



Series: Les Quizérables [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, M/M, Other, Piningjolras, Pub Quizzes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 05:47:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonnymus/pseuds/Nonnymus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How he still managed to look appealing louche in such a hideous bobbly Christmas jumper was quite beyond Enjolras. How he managed to correctly answer every question – even slurringly able to spell Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky <i>for goodness’ sake</i> – when onto his third whiskey was incomprehensible. How Enjolras was refraining from straightening those god-awful antlers which had been knocked to a jaunty angle atop his curls by Bahorel’s love of headlocks was similarly baffling."</p><p>The next instalment of Pub Quiz ridiculousness, in which: Enjolras is one step away from saying "Bah Humbug!", Grantaire wears a lot of glitter, so many clichés are observed that it's almost embarrassing and Courfeyrac quite possibly makes a fortune.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Merry Quizmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carolinecalflo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinecalflo/gifts).



> Merry Christmas to everyone and I'm sorry this is up a little late. 
> 
> I was staying with relatives and had to be "social" - eg. not go and post fanfic and not watch Doctor Who! This is the most ridiculously fluffy, clichéd and generally teeth-achingly sickly sweet thing I've ever written so I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> For anyone reading this and wondering why I've not been doing the other fic - I can only apologise and aim to have more up soon. As ever, I do not own these characters. Any comments, kudos or criticisms are very much appreciated!
> 
> This is dedicated to Caroline: my own mix of Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras (and what a mix, eh?) You are an excellent friend and I hope you've had a great Christmas!

There were never many quizzes scheduled in the weeks running up to Christmas. Instead, they were treated to all manner of open mic nights and festive fundraisers going on at the Musain, and Musichetta usually did a roaring trade in hot chocolate, mulled wine, anything gingerbread or eggnog flavoured, and mince pies. As such, Enjolras had sat through rather too many evenings of Courfeyrac singing “Santa Baby” in the most seductive manner he could muster, as Jehan picked at the battered acoustic guitar with an expression of quiet bliss, like the pair were creating some kind of insightful indie masterpiece rather than a terrifying blend of raunchy pop and folksy festivity. 

Enjolras was almost _looking forward_ to the next quiz night. It would be a break from Cosette insisting he dance with someone and taking to hauling him up onto the dance floor herself at least, with Marius looking on with an expression of fierce relief and embarrassment - for he was an even worse dancer than Enjolras, as Courfeyrac had successfully proven the numerous times he’d forced Marius to dance with him.

The last quiz of the year was usually on Christmas Eve and so Les Amis all traipsed into the Musain, wrapped up in innumerable scarves and with red noses and frozen hands, each team eager for the final victory.

Enjolras wasn’t even sure how the quizzes had started. Musichetta had suggested they put some events on in the evenings to draw in students and someone (probably Combeferre) had suggested a pub quiz. It wouldn’t take much time to set up, would be open to everyone and (as Courfeyrac was quick to point out) students would come flooding in if winning got you a free drink.

Joly and Bossuet had promised Musichetta to help go along and help set up and support, and therefore roped all of Les Amis into coming along. Feuilly had quickly split the group into what he thought were two approximately equal teams (and Enjolras wasn’t going to argue with Feuilly!) and so they’d played along. Combeferre’s team had won by a wide margin the first night, but that only made the others more desperate to win. A rematch turned into several, and before Enjolras could really comprehend how it had happened, he and his friends were quizzing at least once a month and _still_ Grantaire somehow managed to turn up late _every time._

Enjolras was thawing his hands on a warm mug of hot chocolate as Feuilly and Bossuet went to order drinks for themselves. Joly jotted their names down on the answer sheet as Bahorel cracked his knuckles threateningly, grinning childishly as he stared down Éponine on the other team, who was doing the ‘got my eye on you’ hand gesture and mouthing “you’re going down” at them. She looked happy but tired, in a baggy Christmas jumper and yesterday’s smoky eye.

Combeferre’s glasses were slightly fogged up, trying in vain to fight off Courfeyrac’s vicious attack of soft-reindeer-antlers and keep his coffee safe from his friend’s flailing limbs. Courfeyrac himself was wearing an elf hat jammed onto his curly hair, Marius next to him was almost as red as his Santa hat and Cosette was looking surprisingly at home with a halo in her hair. Jehan was doodling happily onto the answer sheet as he hummed Christmas carols, watching his teammates fondly.

Musichetta waved from behind the counter with a wide smile. She was wearing flashing Christmas earrings that made the curly brown hair around her temples illuminate. Enjolras tried not to stare. He felt a little like he was breaking out in hives from all the tinsel and fairy lights and mistletoe everywhere.

He’d learnt well enough from the years previously that he could rant about capitalism all he liked at this time of year but no one was going to be sober enough, calm enough or care enough to listen. Most people were too busy imbuing as much eggnog as possible, frantically rushing about buying presents, or just really didn’t care so long as it snowed and the turkey got cooked alright. Enjolras frowned into his hot chocolate and watched Marius’ cheeks light up like a Christmas tree when Courfeyrac and Cosette pressed kisses to each of them. He couldn’t even find it within himself to be even mildly repulsed. _Goddamn Christmas spirit!_

Grantaire eventually walked in, looking as though he might have been dipped in glitter and tinsel and awful knitwear and Enjolras literally groaned aloud.

His cheeks and lips were red from the cold, his hair actually had glitter in, his jumper had some many snowflakes on that Enjolras thought his eyes were going out of focus just looking at it, and he was wearing mittens. _Actual, real life mittens!_ He promptly stole Combeferre’s antlers, and Combeferre shot him a look of indescribable gratitude, which he just grinned at.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he said, flumping down heavily between Bahorel and Feuilly. “Got caught up at the shop - seems everyone is simultaneously thinking ‘shit, I need to get something for [insert family member here]’ and concluding that charcoal and acrylics are the only way to go!” he laughed. Joly squashed an ‘R’ into the tiny bit of space left on the quiz sheet section for team member names, and smiled at him. “Don’t worry man - we knew you’d make it.” Bahorel said, handing Grantaire the beer Feuilly and Bossuet had bought for him earlier. Grantaire laughed again, antlers bobbing, “Of course! Where else is it socially acceptable to wear this much glitter, intellectually crucify Combeferre and get utterly pissed?”

Feuilly just laughed and clapped Grantaire on the back, getting up to go and have a cigarette before the quiz officially began.

Enjolras tried as hard as he could not to glower at the fact he’d not even got a nod of acknowledgement, and Grantaire was laughing and joking and being kind of handsy with the rest of the team. He knew Grantaire didn’t like him much, wasn’t interested in him in that way at all, but it didn’t mean he felt any better about such obvious disregard on his part.

Enjolras _knew_ he liked _him_ however – knew since the day almost two months before when Grantaire had gotten utterly drunk, corrected him on a politics question, beaten Combeferre’s team by a measly one point, and _still_ managed to trip over his feet rather spectacularly on the way home, ending up as a giggling heap, red cheeks, wild smile and dark curls catching the light of the streetlamps as Enjolras helped him into his flat (again).

Musichetta was nodding to the quiz master to begin when Enjolras finally managed to pull himself out of his oddly nostalgic reminiscing. The old microphone crackled into life as Valjean (who was kindly standing in for one of Musichetta’s colleagues, much to the embarrassment of Cosette, terror of Marius and glee of Courfeyrac) peered down at the paper in his hands and began the first question.

“In what year was the first Christmas tree put in Trafalgar Square, and from which country is it received every year?” he asked, with a shaky wave in Cosette’s direction. She and Marius blushed even further as Courfeyrac waved enthusiastically back.

“We’ve got this, guys,” Bahorel hissed, eyeing the other team huddling together in discussion, “we’re going to win this evening. I can _feel it._ ”

Feuilly just rolled his eyes. “You say that every time,” he reminded him.

“It’s Denmark, isn’t it? Or Norway? Maybe Germany? They started the Christmas tree thing, right?” Joly piped up, “I always get confused.”

“Pretty sure it was after the Second World War, right?” Feuilly chipped in.

Bossuet shrugged and began counting of the years on his fingers.

“It was ’47,” Grantaire told them in a quiet voice, lifting his pint to his chapped lips.

Enjolras just scowled. “Are you sure? I mean, surely it was-”

“I’m sure,” Grantaire reasserted, “and it was Norway. It was as thanks for the British support in World War Two, like Feuilly said, I think.”

Feuilly smiled and clinked his glass with Bahorel’s own, taking a celebratory sip. Joly smiled and jotted down their answer.

“Everyone ready for the next question?” Valjean asked, readjusting the knitted monstrosity of a scarf he was wearing, courtesy of Cosette trying to teach Courfeyrac to knit the previous winter.

There was a murmured ripple of agreement and so he cleared his throat for the next question. Combeferre was smiling in a calmly satisfied manner which made it clear he was pretty sure his team had got the answer right. Enjolras, in a fit of petulance, stuck his tongue out as a reply, causing Grantaire and Bahorel to guffaw. Enjolras’ cheeks coloured and he went back to his hot chocolate self-consciously.

“Name the eight original reindeer from ‘The Night Before Christmas’.” 

Combeferre frowned, “Well _technically_ that poem is called ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’ but I get the gist of the question.”

“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer...” Bahorel began confidently before tailing off.

Feuilly ticked them off on his fingers. “Five more... urh, Donner and Blitzen? German for thunder and lightning, right?”

“Originally it was Dunder and Blixem, but yes,” Grantaire nodded, the movement causing his lap to become covered in a light dusting of glitter from his hair.

“There was a Comet and Cupid, wasn’t there?” Joly asked, looking up from the sheet where he was scribbling frantically.

“Uhuh,” Grantaire agreed, taking another slurp of beer, much to Enjolras’ (admittedly irrational) annoyance. _He was just lounging there, slurping beer, late, covering the place with glitter and clearly knew the answer – could probably recite the poem too, dammit!_

He could feel himself blushing again. “Rudolph?” he suggested, fed up of the way Grantaire’s mild expression goaded him so.

“Not in the original, no,” Grantaire told him, with an irritatingly sympathetic expression.

“Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen...” Feuilly rattled off.

Bossuet rubbed his head, expression of intense concentration on his face. “Vixen!” he all but exploded out.

“That’s it!” Joly grinned, high-fiving his boyfriend happily and scribbling down the last reindeer.

Enjolras just sighed heavily and stared mulishly into the dregs of his hot chocolate.

The rest of the quiz continued in much of the same vein – Christmassy questions he did not have a hope of answering, his friends getting progressively more merry (read: tipsy) and Grantaire lounging on the squashy sofa and smiling crookedly, as if assuring them all that he knew the answer, but would rather let them work it out if they could. It was ~~impressive~~ infuriating, and Enjolras wanted to just snatch the antlers from his head, the whiskey that he’d now moved onto from his hand and that awful smug red smile from his lips.

“What was Ebenezer Scrooge’s deceased business partner’s name in ‘A Christmas Carol’?”

“Jacob Marley,” Grantaire murmured, before Joly even had the chance to open his mouth, getting up to buy another drink.

“Who did the score for ‘The Nutcracker’ ballet?”

“Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky,” he stated, looking up from admiring Bahorel’s latest tattoo as he rolled a cigarette.

Joly frowned, raising one eyebrow as he said, “How the heck do you spell that?”

Enjolras gritted his teeth as he watched Grantaire spell it out for their friend, grinning rakishly as he tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

How he still managed to look appealing louche in such a hideous bobbly Christmas jumper was quite beyond Enjolras. How he managed to correctly answer every question – even slurringly able to spell Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky _for goodness’ sake_ – when onto his third whiskey was incomprehensible. How Enjolras was refraining from straightening those god-awful antlers which had been knocked to a jaunty angle atop his curls by Bahorel’s love of headlocks was similarly baffling.

He could not account for these feelings. He really had not expected to go so mushy over the sight of the gap-toothed cynic in antlers, glitter and such a truly unbearable jumper – especially not with being such an intolerable misery at this time of year.

_And yet he was._

When the quiz was finally over and the score announced – _a tie! How unsatisfying was that?_ – most of the Musain’s patrons left in dribs and drabs, after finishing their complementary free drinks. (“I told you the free drink thing would work,” Courfeyrac grinned, quickly grabbing Marius and Cosette’s gloved hands and clutching them in his.)

Les Amis usually stayed behind for another drink or two (or three or four in the case of Grantaire) and to help Musichetta clear up so they could all get home fairly early for Christmas the next morning. No one wanted to leave Musichetta to mop up, wipe down and goodness knows what else late into the night.

Musichetta produced a pair of rubber gloves for Joly before he even asked and he set off to wipe down the kitchen work surfaces. Éponine, Marius and Jehan helped collect all the dishes from the tables, and Cosette and Bahorel began to sweep up, talking animatedly about the recipes they’d each attempted recently. Bossuet was just about trusted not to break anything with a dustpan and brush. Feuilly and Combeferre offered to wash and dry up, and their Christmas carol singing at the sink could be heard from the bar front, all warbling notes and harmonising.

Enjolras’ smile was abruptly crushed by the sight of Courfeyrac wearing tinsel like a boa around his neck and singing horribly off key to something that sounded like Shirley Bassey.

The Musain wasn’t going to be open until about a week into the New Year, so he, Courfeyrac and Grantaire were set the task of getting the decorations down already, as to allow Musichetta a break that didn’t include coming into the Musain to take down a load of tinsel, paper chains and festive wreaths and flowers, courtesy of Jehan.

Grantaire, by this time, was finishing up the eggnog, though Enjolras was pretty sure it didn’t usually have quite that much brandy in it.

Enjolras and Courfeyrac managed to clear about a quarter of the room of tinsel before Courfeyrac got highly distracted (as usual) and began swatting his friends’ arses with a tea towel stolen from Combeferre. Marius’ ears were flushed an even darker red and Cosette was giggling at his truly outraged expression.

Grantaire looked over his eggnog with the beginnings of a bleary expression, antlers completely crooked and eyes made all the more bright by the surrounding glitter. Enjolras was exhausted of keeping this up – pretending that the weird distance between the two of them didn’t bother him and that he was okay with being the least-liked friend, the one he tolerated to spend time with the rest of Les Amis.

He _liked_ Grantaire, _admired_ him, even! He liked his puns, his sense of humour, his intelligence, the way he was so relaxed and down to earth and just generally well-liked. He had beautiful hair, broad shoulders, a crooked smile and frighteningly blue eyes. Grantaire made his arguments better, even if his cynicism worried and infuriated him, and he was kind and loving to all his friends – all his friends except Enjolras, anyway!

It wasn’t even that he treated him _unkindly_ , per se – it was just almost total ignorance outside the realm of debate. It was like he just respected him as an adversary, and nothing more. He wanted to watch films with him, go out for meals - anything! It would be nice to be able to just generally hang out like he would with any of his other friends. It didn’t even have to progress further than that (as much as Enjolras would like it to). It was merely the utter disregard that got to him, and it didn’t seem to stand out any more starkly than at the quiz nights, where Grantaire would buy drinks and clap the shoulders of pretty much every other team member, and merely correct his answers and smile nervously at him.

Enjolras frowned in his direction. “Are you going to help or what?”

Grantaire smirked and pulled himself up from the barstool where he was perched. Bending into an elaborate bow, he said “well, of course, Captain, O my Captain! I was just doing ‘Chetta the kindness of not letting the –hic- eggnog go to waste,” winking uncoordinatedly with a ridiculous grin.

Enjolras tried not to scoff. “Right, okay. Well I think you’ve succeeded there, so if you could just help with the decoration-removal operation here now,” he said, perhaps a little too shortly.

He could have sworn that Grantaire’s muttered reply had sounded suspiciously like “I’ll remove your decorations –hic-” before he got to work. Enjolras blushed furiously.

The next five minutes passed relatively without incident, if you could call Enjolras’ irrational frustration _not an incident_. Grantaire was humming carols under his breath, and looking oddly attractive even with messed up hair, wonky antlers and a profuse scattering of glitter.

He’d had enough of Christmas – _had enough before it had even begun_ – and Grantaire seemed determined to shred his already fraying nerves. The run-up to the holidays had been frantic: essays, fundraising, campaigns, meetings, desperately trying to increase the food stock in the homeless shelter in time for the holidays, and _God forbid_ , Christmas shopping – and Enjolras was still as wound up as a tightly coiled spring. He was getting up for the soup kitchen in the morning, and really didn’t have time to be faffing about with the removal of the decorations with someone who clearly had no priorities and would quite likely spend Christmas sleeping off a hangover, doing nothing productive at all, with beautifully ruffled curls and blue eyes and -

“Enjolras,” Grantaire broke him out of his thoughts with a crooked grin.

“Yes?” he snapped back.

Grantaire looked up at the mistletoe in the doorway above them with an oddly shy smile.

 _Are you kidding?_ Enjolras was actually going to kill Courfeyrac – this _must_ have been planned!

He continued the murderous thoughts, pondering the fate of Courfeyrac, until slightly chapped lips met his own, and then he wasn’t really thinking at all.

\--

Peering out of the doorway of the kitchen in time to catch the pair’s ‘moment’, Joly and Bossuet lightly high-fived one another.

“It worked!” Bossuet hissed in delight.

“I can’t believe it! I’m not sure they should be kissing there, I mean, mistletoe berries are poisonous and can have a bad effect on-”

“Finally though, right?”

Joly hummed in agreement.

“Almost worth the huge bruise that took to get up there!” Bossuet smiled, rolling up his sleeve to display a large blacked bruise on his arm.

“L'Aigle de Meaux!” Joly shrieked, “When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me? We need to get some ice and arnica or something!”

\--

It was only then that Enjolras and Grantaire broke apart, looking around with expressions both glazed and a little frightened.

“ _Oh shit_ ,” Grantaire whispered, and Enjolras’ heart dropped as the clock chimed midnight from somewhere deep within the cafe.

“I’m so sorry – I should have... I should have asked. I know you didn’t, I mean, wouldn’t want to – and I... I’m really sorry, Enjolras. If you want to just forget about this happening, I mean, uh, lots of eggnog and all that, um...”

“Um, is that what you want?” Enjolras asked, frowning.

“Is that not what you-?”

Enjolras took a deep breath. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” Enjolras blushed. “I, I’ve felt this way for a while and um, I quite understand if you don’t reciprocate, but don’t apologise for um, the mistletoe, um... I really didn’t mind.”

Grantaire’s crooked grin got even wider at that. “ _Oh really?_ ” he all but purred.

“Really,” Enjolras said, and couldn’t even be too cross at Bahorel’s exaggerated gagging noises in the background, where all his friends had seemed to have gathered during their conversation, as if beckoned by Joly’s horrified shriek.

“I’m so happy for yooooooooou!” Courfeyrac cried happily, throwing his arms around the pair and knocking Grantaire’s antlers even more askew, “and you all owe me money!” he said, getting his wallet out gleefully.

There was a collective groan.

Enjolras and Grantaire didn’t notice, however - they had clasped hands and were smiling shyly at one another until Enjolras stole Grantaire’s mittens with a grin.

_Perhaps Christmas wasn’t so bad._


End file.
